the trunk, and the woodman has begun to calculate which way the tree will fall; he drives a wedge to direct its course ;now a few more movements of the noiseless saw; and then a larger wedge. See how the branches tremble! Hark how the trunk begins to crack! Another stroke of the huge hammer on the wedge, and the agony, shakes, reels, and falls. awful it is! How like to death, to human death in its grandest form!

tree quivers as with a mortal How slow, and solemn, and

Even the heavens seem to sympathize with the devastation. The clouds have gathered into one thick low canopy, dark and vapoury as the smoke which overhangs London; the setting sun is just gleaming underneath with a dim and bloody glare, and the crimson rays are spreading upwards with a lurid and portentous grandeur, a subdued and dusky glow, like the light reflected on the sky from some vast conflagration. The deep flush fades away, and the rain begins to descend; and we hurry homeward rapidly, yet sadly, forgetful alike of the flowers and the wetting, thinking and talking only of the fallen tree.

MISS MITFORD.

THE BEECH-TREE'S PETITION.

Oн leave this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree !
Though bush or floweret never grow
My dark unwavering shade below;
Nor summer bud perfume the dew
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;
Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn ;
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
Th' ambrosial amber of the hive;
Yet leave this barren spot to me,—
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Thrice twenty summers I have seen
The sky grow bright, the forest green;
And many a wintry wind have stood
In bloomless, fruitless solitude,
Since childhood in my pleasant bower
First spent its sweet and sportive hour,
Since youthful lovers in my shade
Their vows of truth and rapture made,
And on my trunk's surviving frame
Carved many a long-forgotten name,
Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,
First breathed upon this sacred ground-
By all that Love has whispered here,
Or Beauty heard with ravished ear—
As Love's own altar honour me,
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree.

T. CAMPBELL.

JUNE.

THE general character of June, in the happiest seasons, is fine, clear, and glowing, without reaching the intense heats of July. Its commencement is the only period of the year in which we could possibly forget that we are in a world of perpetual change and decay. The earth is covered with flowers, and the air is saturated with their odours. It is true that many have vanished from our path, but they have slid away so quietly, and their places have been occupied by so many fragrant and beautiful successors, that we have scarcely been sensible of their departure. Everything is full of life, greenness, and vigour. Families of young birds are abroad, and give their parents a busy life of it, till they can peck for themselves. Rooks have deserted the rookery, and are feeding their vociferous young in every pasture, and under every green tree.

The flower-garden is now in the height of its splendour. Roses of almost innumerable species,—I have counted no less than fourteen in a cottage garden,-lilies, jasmines, speedwells, rockets, stocks, lupins, geraniums, pinks, poppies, valerians— red and blue-mignonette, and the glowing rhododendron abound.

It is the very carnival of nature, and she is prodigal of her luxuries. It is luxury to walk abroad, indulging every sense with sweetness, loveliness, and harmony. It is luxury to stand beneath the forest side, when all is still and basking at noon, and to see the landscape suddenly darken, the black and tumultuous clouds assemble as at a signal; to hear the awful thunder crash upon the listening ear; and then, to mark the glorious bow rise on the lurid rear of the tempest, the sun laugh jocundly abroad, and

'Every bathed leaf and blossom fair

Pour out its soul to the delicious air.'

It is luxury to haunt the gardens of old-fashioned houses in

the morning, when the bees are flitting forth with a rejoicing hum; or at eve, when the honeysuckle and the sweet-brier mingle their spirit with the breeze. It is luxury to plunge into the cool river; and, if ever we are tempted to turn anglers, it must be now. If one might steal away into a quiet valley, by a winding stream, buried, completely buried, in fresh grass; the foam-like flowers of the meadow-sweet, the crimson loose-strife, and the large blue geranium nodding beside us; the dragon-fly, the ephemera, and the king-fisher glancing to and fro; the trees above casting their flickering shadows on the stream; and one of our ten thousand volumes of delightful literature in our pockets,-then indeed might one be a most patient angler, though taking not a single fin.

How delicious, too, are the evenings become! The frosts and damps of spring are past; the earth is dry: the night air is balmy and refreshing: the glow-worm has lit her lamp: the bat is circling about: the fragrant breath of flowers steals into our houses: the bees hum sonorous music amid the pendant flowers of the tall sycamore-tree: the cockchafer is hovering around it: the stag-beetle in the south soars cheerily in the clear air: and the moth flutters against the darkening pane. Go forth when the business of the day is over, thou who art pent in city toils, and stray through the newly-shot corn, along the grassy and hay-scented fields; linger beside the solitary woodland,-the gale of heaven is stirring its mighty and umbrageous branches. The wild-rose, with its flowers of most delicate odour, and of every tint, from the deepest red to the purest pearl; the wreathed and luscious honeysuckle, and the verdurous, snowy-flowered elder, embellish every wayside, or light up the most shadowy region of the wood. Field-peas and beans, in full flower, add their spicy aroma; the red clover is at once splendid and profuse of its honeyed breath. The young corn is bursting into ear ;the awned heads of rye, wheat, and barley, and the nodding panicles of oats, shoot from their green and glaucous stems, in broad, level, and waving expanses of present beauty and